Nelson Shanks
Crimson and ash-green velvet, leatherbound books, a scattering of ink-dribbled papers, beeswax, dried flowers, faded pipe smoke, mahogany, and oak suffused with warm beams of golden amber and dusted with pale sandalwood.
You hear a tittering of laughter: high-pitched and discordant, like bent, cracked silver bells clattering onto sheets of rusted metal. In the gloom of a dilapidated tent, the glow of small red eyes reflects on shining steel blades.
Dust and dead, dry flowers, ice-cold skin, the swish of a metal blade, and a memory of honey.